


to be understood, as to understand

by the_ragnarok



Series: cat!Jon [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon typical Martin's mum, Childhood Trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Genderfluid Character, Grief/Mourning, Hand Feeding, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lack of Communication, M/M, Massage, Michael and Helen are the same genderfluid person, Panic Attacks, Trans Martin Blackwood, Use of prayer as a coping mechanism by nonreligious character, trans support group
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22845484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: It's the third anniversary of Martin's mum's death, but his boyfriend is coming over and he's going to be fine. (He is not fine.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: cat!Jon [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622008
Comments: 73
Kudos: 504





	to be understood, as to understand

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to mx_carter for beta and britpicking, and to exmoose and code16 for encouraging me and helping me plan this out.

Approaching the building where the support group takes place, Martin spies a familiar figure, blond and curly-haired, standing outside and having a smoke. Martin waves at them. They wave back. 

When he comes close enough, he can get a good look at the person's pins, which say "My name is Michael" and "She/Her/Hers."

Martin nods at her. "See you inside?" Michael isn't always up for the support group, even if she usually lurks around the building when they meet. 

She shrugs airily. "We'll see."

Martin goes inside without further discussion. He is grateful to Michael for introducing him to the pet romps where he met Jon, and of course he wants her to reap the benefits of the group, but sometimes he feels self conscious talking about Jon next to someone who knows him from such a different context. 

A handful of people have already congregated in the room where they have the group. The kettle has just boiled; Martin asks if anyone else would like tea. Mike and Adelard take him up on his suggestion, Basira and Jane abstain. There isn't a tea chart, as a list of names might compromise the privacy of those attending, but Martin knows how the regulars like their tea. He makes his own cup last and sits down. 

Jane looks around the room. "Shall we start?" 

Mike looks around. "Shouldn't we wait for Hel--Michael?"

Jane shrugs. "She'll come in when she's ready, or she won't. We might as well begin. Tell the group your name, or what you want to be called, your pronouns, and a one sentence summary of what you want to discuss today. I'm Jane, she/her or they/them. Today I want to vent about my landlord, who is a prick."

Martin's next to last in the name round. He listens to the others speak, and considers that he could always talk about things at the hospital. If he doesn't want to bring up--

"Your turn," Jane says, pointing at him.

"Right! Right. Um, Martin, he/him. And, uh." He swallows. "The anniversary of my mum's death is coming up."

A general murmurs of sympathy goes around the room. Martin exhales. That wasn't so bad. Maybe talking about it wouldn't be, either. 

It's a fairly good meeting, in Martin's opinion. Jane's venting is nothing out of the ordinary. He thinks he makes helpful contributions when Basira and Mike talk. 

Then it's his turn. He coughs and tries to organize his thoughts. "So. My mum. Um." He's quiet for a few long moments, wincing under scrutiny.

Mike breaks the silence. "When did she pass away?"

"Th-three years." Martin wipes at his face, embarrassed. He hasn't even started talking. "It's so odd. Because, in a way, when she died, it was like I got my life back. I could finally go on T, I could sell our old house and use the money to go back to school. I feel shitty, being happy for those things, but I can't not be. 

"And it hurt. Even though it's not like we talked much before," he laughs, short and self deprecating. "I wonder if she'd even have cared that I'm trans." The room is quiet, letting him talk. "I miss her. But I had missed her for ages before she died, too. I barely remember her ever just... being there." He sniffles. "But she's gone, and I, I'll never-- thank you," he says, to Basira, who passes him a packet of tissues. 

"When is it?" Jane asks. "Do you want someone to stay with you?"

"Tuesday. No, I'm fine, I'm supposed to meet Jon. My," Martin blushes, ridiculously, "my boyfriend. That should take my mind off it."

"Does he know about your mum?" says a voice behind Martin, who startles and looks around. Michael is lounging in the doorway, inspecting her long, painted fingernails. 

"I suppose I should tell him, yeah," Martin says. 

Adelard clears his throat and softly says, "Would you like me to pray for her?"

Martin considers. His mum wasn't especially religious, but the notion makes him breathe a little easier. "I'd like that. Yeah."

Not to be outdone, Jane says, "I'll light a candle to guide her spirit, if you want."

Martin nods. He doesn't believe in either Adelard's God nor any of Jane's deities, but the thought of someone remembering his mum enough to do something, anything, feels good. Like he's doing his duty as a son.

* * *

The whole notion of anniversaries for death is ridiculous. Grief strikes at random, when the sun hits Martin's face at an angle that reminds him of the house he grew up in, when he smells her perfume on a stranger, when he goes past her favorite brand of cereal in the shop. 

Martin doesn't go to her grave; it feels almost disrespectful. She never wanted him to come by when she was alive. Seems wrong to visit her now that she's dead and can't stop him. 

Tuesday is a rare day off. Martin refuses to spend it being miserable on purpose when that happens plenty of times by accident. 

Jon will come in the afternoon. Martin sleeps in, takes his time showering and shaving. (He still can't grow a proper beard, to his consternation: his facial hair persists in being neck-ial hair instead.) He goes to the store and spends a ridiculous amount of time choosing fruit and cheese and chocolate, as well as a few other frivolities, then goes home and cuts everything in bite-sized chunks. The work is relaxing in its repetitiveness, Martin engrossed in the scent and textures of the foods he's working with.

* * *

As is typical in weeks when they don't see much of each other, Jon staggers inside tired, hungry, and cranky about both of these. He bids Martin a cursory hello before collapsing on the large pillow Martin had set for him in the corner. 

Martin lets him settle in peace, making tea and bringing out the snacks he'd prepared earlier. Jon comes sniffing cautiously once he has the bowls set on the table. 

A slice of strawberry seems as good a place to start as any. Martin holds it out, making kissy noises at Jon, who comes close enough to inspect and then darts away to the corner before returning to continue his inspection. Finally, he deigns to take the fruit from Martin's hand, nipping his fingers in the process.

Martin must look very silly with how widely he's smiling. Good thing he doesn't care. He takes a chocolate cube for himself and offers Jon a chunk of brie. 

After each bite, Jon retreats, but every time he lessens the distance, until he's curled up on the sofa next to Martin, taking apple slices out of his hands. "Do you want petting?" Martin asks. He's getting better at predicting Jon, but he has no idea what Jon will choose this time.

Jon tilts his head, considering, then tugs sharply on the hem of Martin's shirt and shuffles off the sofa. Martin follows him, still grinning, to the bedroom, where Jon climbs on the bed and sprawls. 

"Do you want to be weighted down?" Martin asks, and Jon nods. Martin settles on top of him. He knows by now how much of his weight Jon likes, and it's always so satisfying to feel Jon relax beneath him, to feel like he's shielding Jon from... everything, really. 

Jon's making sleepy, content noises. Martin asks permission and kisses Jon's neck. Jon pushes up into the touch. 

There's another idea Martin has wanted to try for a while. "Would you like a massage?" He's happy to stay where he is while Jon thinks about it. 

A few moments later, Jon says, "I've never tried. I suppose I could find out." 

Martin smiles a little wider. "Lovely. Tell me when you want to move on to that."

There is a bit of preparation involved in this, primarily stoking up the heat because Jon gets cold easily and a massage would work best with him shirtless. Martin takes his shirt off as well, to keep from being overheated; it won't help much with his binder still on but it's better than staying fully clothed. As he has Jon arrayed on a towel before him, half naked and gorgeous, Martin calls this a very worthwhile exchange.

Martin stands up and pours a bit of the almond oil he'd bought today into his palm. He isn't a professional, although some of his exes claimed he has very good hands and he's glanced at a few online tutorials, but he knows lubrication can make the experience much better. 

(And if there's another use he's hoping to put the oil to, well, it pays to be prepared and there's nothing wrong with a bit of optimism.)

He starts off with firm caresses, learning the shape of Jon's naked torso. Martin has seen him sans shirt a total of three times, this one included. Outside of subspace, Jon usually prefers to stay clothed. Jon's beautiful under him, brown skin gleaming with the oil.

Jon's back also has more knots than bad werewolf erotica, so Martin has no intention of fixing all of him in one go. He does work to alleviate the tension where he can, putting some weight on his hand as he grinds the heel under Jon's shoulder blade, digging his thumbs carefully into the boundary between neck and shoulder. Jon groans whenever Martin hits a particularly painful spot, and it's getting to Martin pretty strongly. 

He keeps going until Jon feels pliant under him, slowly winding down with lingering touches to Jon's side, going to lie by his side. "Are you going to wash your hands?" Jon asks.

"Maybe," Martin says, glancing aside. "Unless you want to be touched, um, other places?" He blushes as he speaks, feeling incredibly unsubtle. 

Jon looks amused, however. "I might," he says. He takes off his trousers and pants without rolling to lie on his back, and stays like that, spreading his legs.

This sight is also getting to Martin, in an entirely different way. "You want me to finger you?" he says, just to be certain.

"Mmhm." Jon pillows his head on his hands and lies there. 

Martin brushes his knuckles over Jon's shin, the hair growing there catching on his skin. Then, heart pounding, he spreads Jon's cheeks to get a good look at him. Just as tight as he'd been in the few previous times Martin had been allowed to touch him there. They've talked about him using his fingers, but this is the first time he'd tried it. 

His hands shake a bit. _No pressure or anything,_ he thinks, wry. He pets Jon's hole with his fingers, gentle. 

It's been Martin's experience that for Jon to open up, both physically and metaphorically, he just needs some patience and respect. He enjoys exploring Jon with his fingers, genuinely does, and if Jon's body won't let him in then it won't and that's fine. 

Jon doesn't vocally enjoy this like he does rimming. He makes noises that sound almost considering, like he's debating whether to like this or not. But he does open up enough to let in Martin's finger, if only to the first knuckle. The heat inside him makes similar heat pool in Martin's belly. 

"I think that's it for now," Jon says, after a few moments. "Okay?"

Martin blinks. "Yeah, of course." As he speaks, though, he feels weirdly detached from himself, like a pillow in a too-big case. "Shall I clean you up?"

He doesn't get an answer. A moment later, he realizes it's because Jon's fallen asleep.

That usually sends a wave of warmth through him. Jon really doesn't sleep as much as he needs to, and seeing him feel safe enough to nod off right there under Martin's watchful eye is incredibly satisfying. Now, despite sweating, Martin feels oddly cold. Like Jon's buggered off somewhere and left him behind.

He tells himself he's being unreasonable, covers Jon with another towel and goes to wash his hands. 

In the living room, half-full bowls of finger food wait like an accusation: he made too much, wasteful, he made the wrong things, he shouldn't have done this at all. Martin groans and rubs his temples. Goddamn it, no, not this again. He knows he's being a prick to himself for no good reason.

While his attention is thus distracted, he bumps into the coffee table, knocking a small bowl full of fruit down to the floor. Martin curses and kneels to pick it up before the juices stain the carpet too badly.

 _So clumsy. Can't you do anything right?_

Martin flinches at the thought. He stares dumbly at the spreading stain on the carpet, remembering his mum with an empty, dirty plate in her hand and an empty expression on her face. Remembers scrabbling to clean up the carpet before the food he'd spilled lost them their deposit. 

Except no, that's wrong. Because he remembers her, with that same lack of expression, picking up the plate and turning it upside down. All the while looking at him. _Nasty child. Why would you do such a thing?_

Martin squeezes his eyes shut and tries to stop shaking. It doesn't work.

Because he must have done something to earn her wrath, her contempt. (Except he hadn't. He knows what happened. Everyone at the group said it wasn't his fault, they must be right, he knows this.) But a mother doesn't just get up one day and decide to hate her son, so despite everything else, it has to be his fault. _Has_ to be.

"Martin?"

Martin freezes like a rabbit in headlights. Jon's standing before him, blinking owlishly, the towel slung around his hips. 

"Martin, what is it? What happened?"

Martin hates the sound he makes, then, low and pitiful, disgusting. Now he's gone and woken Jon up over his, his bullshit. He really can't do anything right, can he? Can't even take care of Jon without messing up, doing the wrong thing, _wanting_ too much.

At that moment, an ugly, shitty side of him wishes he could hurt himself like Jon can. That he could be strong enough to at least deal himself the pain he deserves. And Martin hates it, because he knows, he knows that on another level below it, part of him wants Jon to see that he's hurt so he'd do something about it. God. God. He's such a fuck up. 

"Please tell me what I can do," Jon says, "I'm terrible at this," and the urgency in his voice would normally break Martin out of this spell but he stays in it. Like the selfish, spoiled child he knows he is, and always has been. 

He needs to put this away, this formless miasma of awfulness, but it's too big and he can't. Just like he couldn't help his mum, couldn't do anything for her but awaken memories of a man she'd hated.

 _You got friends to pray for her_ , he thinks, and it's a silly, pointless action but it's also a little glowing dot of not-terribleness, so he clenches his eyes shut and tries to immerse himself in that. Martin is not a man of faith, but his hands clench together against his chest and he's mouthing words, addressing anyone and anything that might listen.

The words he's forming are no prayer he's ever learned, he can't remember ever being taught any. They're barely words at all. Just a mess of, _Give her peace, keep him safe, I'm sorry. Forgive me._

When he opens his eyes again, his face is wet, the mess on the floor has been cleaned up with nary a stain left, and Jon's huddled on the sofa and watching him with wide eyes. "I'm so sorry," Martin says, inadequately, at the same moment that Jon says the same thing.

They stare at each other in silence for a moment, then Jon clears his throat and says, "You can go first."

Nonsensically, the one thing Martin can think to say is, "I wasn't crying because of the bowl."

"I realize that, yes," Jon says, in a voice that conveys his academic scepticism of the entire concept of emotions. Then he deflates. "That was the only part I knew how to fix."

Martin's crying again. He'd always been that way, once he starts there's no turning the tap back off. He's still rattled. "I'm sorry."

"You keep saying that," Jon says. "Why? What are you sorry for?"

Martin fumbles for an answer. "For alarming you, I guess. For," he swallows, "not doing a good enough job. I don't know, I'm sorry. See, there I go again."

Jon's face crumples. "Please tell me how I can help."

"I don't know!" Martin doesn't mean to, but the words come out in a frustrated shout, making Jon flinch away. "Shit. Shit, I'm sorry. I'm making this worse, aren't I?"

Jon straightens and takes a deep breath. Martin doesn't know what he's expecting, but it isn't for Jon to look at him thoughtfully and say, "One, being on the floor can't be optimal. Why don't you come to sit on the sofa?" He pats the space next to him gingerly. "Two, give me a moment to look up the chart."

Martin slowly makes his way to the sofa and sits down before saying, doubtfully, "The chart?"

"More of a list, really." Jon checks something on his phone. "Oh, there it is. It's some questions to ask yourself when, I quote, everything is awful and you're not okay." He raises his eyes to meet Martin's and shrinks a little on himself. "I read about it in an advice column," he mumbles.

The praying had calmed Martin down enough to actually speak, but left him still wrapped in misery. Jon's words send a strong pulse of affection through Martin like a spear, moving clear through him and dissipating the fog surrounding him. "Of course you did." Jon frowns at him. Martin waves his hand. "Come on. Let's go through this list of yours."

Watching Jon going down the list is endearing; he has a little wrinkle in the middle of his forehead that Martin wants to kiss, and treats every item with complete seriousness, as though this were a checklist for a space mission. He gets Martin water and watches him drink it, then sits down, nodding with satisfaction, having checked off an item. It makes Martin want to giggle.

"Have you said a nice thing to anyone today?" Jon reads, and narrows his eyes. "That doesn't seem right, what about someone saying nice things to you?"

 _Oh._ Martin hunches down a bit; he feels sucker-punched. "I think I did compliment you earlier," he says, in an attempt at diversion that feels awfully transparent.

"You did. But I never did it back, did I?" Jon tilts his head and thinks. "I liked--"

"I don't want you saying that because you have to," Martin says in a rush. "Because you saw it in a list somewhere. If you don't want to say it, that's fine." If he tries hard enough, he's sure he can make himself believe that.

Jon just slowly blinks at him. Out of nowhere, Martin remembers that slow blinks are how cats show affection. "I do want to," he says. "What's wrong with using a list to remind me if that? Lists are a very handy organization tool."

Fondness wins out again. "I suppose so," Martin says helplessly. 

Jon counts on his fingers: "One, you give a very good massage. I have definitely enjoyed myself. Two, your choice of finger foods was very good and I applaud it. Three, your bed is very comfortable for napping." He peers at Martin, and sighs. "I'm doing this wrong, aren't I."

"You're doing great," Martin says, biting his lip to fight a smile. "But maybe focus more on what I'm like and less on my belongings?" He can't believe he's saying that. 

Jon looks in the corner then, at the pillow Martin set there for him. "Thank you for giving me a place where I could rest, though," he says, frowning in concentration. "Where I felt... safe. It was very considerate of you."

Martin closes his eyes and takes shallow breaths, overwhelmed by the notion of Jon feeling safe in his house. "I think we can continue along the list," Martin says, because if Jon keeps trying to say nice things one of them will have an aneurysm. 

"Have you hugged someone today," Jon reads. He moves close to Martin dutifully, and Martin stops him.

"Remember," Martin says softly. "Only if you want."

Jon's mouth thins in concentration. Then he wraps his arms around himself and say, "Consider this a remote hug. A, a hug in spirit."

Martin shuts his eyes tightly. "Jon," he says, worrying that he'll start crying again. "Thank you."

He can feel Jon stiffen across the sofa. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You didn't," Martin says, and there's a tear falling down his cheek, right on schedule. "You did everything just right."

* * *

After they're done with the list, Martin feels better, somewhat, but drained to the bone. 

Jon eyes him. "Do you want me to go?"

"I don't know if I'll be very good company right now," Martin says quietly. 

"That's not what I asked," Jon points out. "What do you want?"

Martin lets his head fall back against the sofa, exhausted. "I want you to stay." The words feel raw, like he ripped them out of some inner place that was never meant to be used this way. 

"Okay then," Jon says. "You don't have to entertain me. We could turn on the telly and numb our brains."

"That sounds marvellous," Martin agrees, and goes to turn it on.

Half an hour later, barely conscious of what's happening on the screen, Martin says, "My mum died three years ago."

Jon stiffens but keeps looking at the screen. He says nothing.

Martin doesn't mind. The silence between them feels like an open door, waiting, inviting. "Yeah. Exactly three years today, actually. We... it's complicated." He breathes. "I never understood-- my gran had some albums, though, with pictures my mum forgot about-- I'm sorry, I'm not making any sense."

Jon doesn't answer except to hug himself. 

Martin takes a deep breath. "My mum hated me because I look like my dad, and she hated him." The words feel wrong, pathetic and tiny and oversimplifying. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said it like that. She had good reasons."

Still not looking at him, Jon says, "Your child's appearance isn't a good reason to hate them." He shifts. "I don't know much about parenting, but I know that." Predictably, Martin starts crying again. That gets Jon to turn around sharply. His eyes widen; it would be comical in another situation. "Christ, I shouldn't have said that, should I."

"You're right," Martin says, but that's only making him cry harder. "I want to think you're right, but I feel so pathetic, I..."

Jon makes a wordless sound of frustration. Then he gets to hands and knees on the sofa and walks that way to Martin, resting his head gingerly against his shoulder. They stay like this for a bare three seconds before Jon freezes and says, "I'm sorry, you're in no state to manage me, I don't know what I was thinking." 

Martin thinks he has a pretty good idea, actually. "I wouldn't mind telling my troubles to a cat," he says. "Cats don't judge."

Jon looks pained. "I'm sorry, have you _met_ me?"

Martin meets his gaze. "I have. And I don't think you'd mind me being like," he gestures at his face, swollen from crying, "this."

"I suppose not," Jon says. He lays his head in Martin's lap and purrs in stops and starts.

Cats' purrs can make people heal faster, Martin's read that somewhere. He's not sure this applies to human cats but he's definitely feeling better. He asks to pet Jon's hair and, on his nod, buries his fingers in the thick strands. Tears come fast and easy, as do words. Not all of them make sense, some of them Martin will probably regret later when he's thinking soundly. Jon keeps purring all the same.

* * *

"Maybe it's time," Helen says, "for them to know this me as well. Not just Michael." Their voice is steady, but their hands are shaking.

"You don't have to make the decision all at once," Adelard opines. "Pick a few people you trust to come out to, and start from there."

Helen pins Martin with a look. "What do you think? Will your boyfriend be a prick to me?"

Martin ignores his knee-jerk response, that of course Jon would be fine, and considers. "He didn't have much of a reaction to me, but I'm pretty binary. I don't know how he'll react. If you want I can, uh, test the ground for you."

Helen smiles at him; not their wide, deranged grin, but something small and genuine. "I'd like that, yeah."

When it's Martin's turn, he talks about what happened with Jon. Everyone is quiet until he winds down. 

Then Helen says, "I don't want to say _I told you so_...."

"Liar," Jane says. "You absolutely wanted to say that." Helen gives a cheerful shrug.

"I am glad you talked about it," Basira says. "Maybe next time you could do that in advance."

"Yeah. Maybe." Martin drags in a breath and looks at Adelard. "I'm a bit worried, though, about the praying thing. That it was disrespectful of me to do that, when I'm not big on regular worship."

"The God I believe in," Adelard says, "doesn't keep an account of how you treat Him, only how you treat other people. If you need Him, you can ask for His help at any time."

"I mean," Jane says, "I have an atheist friend who prays when they're having a panic attack, so they made up their own deity. Esh, deity of aroace agender people, justice and revolutions."

Helen whistles softly. "That's a pretty kick-ass deity."

"My God also doesn't care what you call Him," Adelard says, unruffled. "If you need Him, His love is unconditional."

That brings Martin closer to tears than he wanted to, so he hurriedly cedes the stage to Basira. He spends the rest of group time slightly out of it, looking at these people who have shared their troubles with him and let him do the same. Thinking about Jon texting him the word "hug" every morning, like clockwork. He probably set an alarm to remind himself. 

He misses his mum, and it hurts, a bad pain with no good parts. Other things that hurt do have good parts: being seen, being known and understood. Pain is complicated, living is complicated. In the midst of all that, his gratitude is a warm shelter, a place to be comforted by the existence of the people he loves.


End file.
